


Music Vows

by DaughterofProspero



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: Angst, Headcanon, Humor, Music, POV Third Person, Piano
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-16 04:12:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5813647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaughterofProspero/pseuds/DaughterofProspero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself,<br/>She turns to favour and to prettiness."</p>
<p>Throughout her life, the piano has always been a comfort to Ophelia. <br/>What she cannot speak aloud is said through her music; but in Elsinore, even that is not enough to save you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Music Vows

It had been five years since the piano was touched. Covered in a modest sheet it stood in the corner of an unexceptional storage room, waiting. In spite of the drab drapery, an impressive layer of dust coated it’s white-turned-grey keys, and creaky pedals. Sluggish with neglect, the hammer would only have soured any note it tried to create. It was not unsalvageable, but since the death of Lord Polonius’ wife, none had gone near it.

Instead, young Laertes was given weekly instructions on how to play the Cornett – much to the chagrin of nearly everyone involved. The tutor swore his hair got greyer every week, but Polonius refused to budge. In his self-proclaimed worldly wisdom, the Chief Counselor insisted that mastering an instrument was key in building a boy’s character. So, the ears of those unfortunate enough to pass by during Laertes’ lessons continued to take abuse.

The only other person in the entire castle willing to listen was Ophelia; who would sit, tucked into a ball, with her head on her knees outside the door and study the piercing raucous, deep in thought. Laertes had been “playing” the instrument for two years before she got up the courage to ask if she could sit in. As soon as the lesson ended, she (on the heels of the exasperated tutor) skittered out of the room and ran to her father’s study, begging for classes of her own. Polonius – delighted that at least one of his children was taking interest in music – obliged; the only problem was finding an instrument to fit her.

At four years old, pint-sized, and Laertes’ tutor flat out refusing to teach another of Polonius’ kin for all the kroner in Denmark the list was decidedly small. The Cornett and all other brass instruments and woodwinds were out due to her minimal lung capacity. Most stringed instruments were far too large, and one could hardly be instructed on how to properly play the tambourine.

It was late one night as Polonius lay in bed that an idea formed; born of recalling delicate arrangements drifting through the castle as his wife sat at her instrument: An upright piano left to be forgotten. The next morning, he sent for the piano to be fetched. It was placed in Ophelia’s room, the cover removed in a shower of dust, and presented to the awestruck girl. With some help, she climbed onto the bench and tapped the C with a tentative finger. What emerged rivaled Laertes’ poor Cornett in aural assault, the note curdled and tinged with a sickly vibrato. But she tapped it again and again, grinning all the while. Polonius too, smiled with bittersweet nostalgia. Once the piano was revived, the lessons would begin.

At first, the noise was as bad as her brother’s: Stunted, arrhythmic, uncertain. But over time the scales became more smooth, more sure. The noise gradually began to resemble music. Covered by the piano, she’d often sing (though rarely noticed herself doing it), a light and airy compliment to her hands. Sometimes she and Laertes would practice together (everyone avoided the east wing on those occasions), but he and her father are the only ones she’ll play for. Laertes had hoped the focus on his sister would mean his lessons would finally cease but he was forced to continue – fully expected to bring his Cornett and theory books to France sixteen years after his first tutorial.

           

No longer children, the siblings have grown up with music in their lives, a joy Polonius is certain to rhapsodize upon to anyone within earshot. Laertes has learned to live with if not love his seventh Cornett (the first six died under mysterious circumstances over the past decade or so), and if called upon can produce an assortment of complex songs, albeit reluctantly. (His father crows that the ladies love it which just makes Laertes cringe). Ophelia on the other hand, cares for her piano as though it were alive. She has named the instrument after her mother. Similar to Laertes, though, she has grown secretive concerning her abilities. She will sometimes ask her father for access to different books for study, but her music is almost invariably confined to her room and ears alone – the remnants that drip from under her door are muffled and while pleasant, incomplete.

When she is contemplative, she runs her fingers up and down a series of octaves, absently trills arpeggios, scores her thoughts. When she is joyful, full bodied chords ring out still shy of _forte_ , but ornamented giddily nonetheless. On melancholy days, lachrymose descants dance hauntingly atop _pesante_ dirges from the bass clef. Had she allowed spectators, they might have noticed that in recent years, compositions from the latter category had increased.

On only a single occasion did she admit an audience (an audience of one, but nonetheless and audience): Hamlet. In the early days of their courtship, she – not knowing what to offer let alone how – gave him a small concert. Only a few pieces, and more than one fumbled note, but more by far than she had shown anyone outside her family in the nearing fifteen years she’d studied. In her cloistered way of practicing she was unaware that as she played she sang. A _pianissimo_ hum, harmonizing softly with her nervous orchestration. Hamlet insisted she curtsy when she finished so he could clap for her and her heart soared.  
It is this remembrance that gives her comfort when her father forbids her from so much as speaking to the Prince. Even if he disapproves, it feels as though she has her mother’s blessing.

After Laertes leaves for France her songs grow bolder, daring to taste _fortissimo_ and she plays until her fingers shake with exhaustion. She can never bring herself to maintain the aggressive volume, but for hours on end she will simmer at the piano. Even in the early morning, muted lullabies ward off the encroaching thoughts that have begun to haunt her sleepless nights.

There is a day where in the middle of a complex run the music comes to crashing halt as the door to her room swings rudely open revealing the gaunt face of Hamlet, her sole audience, uninvited, and not come to hear her play. She is frozen to the suddenly uncomfortable bench as he slams his fist down brutally on the keyboard which lets out a dissonant squeal of protest. With his other hand he squeezes her by the wrist until she feels it bruising. When he finally leaves she runs to her father collapsing in his arms. Later that day, she sits hesitantly in front of 88 ivory possibilities and does nothing. The instrument is not damaged, but her wrist is causing her pain. Disheartened, she goes to bed, waking up two hours later, and banging out a rage-full composition, playing through the pain until she falls asleep, forehead pressed against the cool upper front board.

Gertrude is kind, asks Ophelia if she will play for her. Once Ophelia might have accepted, skipping back to her room to practice so she won’t falter in front of the Queen. But reticent, she declines, unwilling to have another audience betray her.

She is running scales for the millionth time when the news is brought to her. Her quivering hand falls from the keys, never to touch them again.

Silence holds Elsinore in it’s clutches until Laertes returns. Ophelia gives her final concert to a select few in the midst of threatened rebellion, her brother amongst them. The shifting melody is carried away, catching in the branches of a lazy willow.

And then there is no more music.

**Author's Note:**

> Yo, so I'm super excited about this piece, not gonna lie.   
> I've promised myself I'm going to write one short story a day for thirty days and post them here but it's hard to get inspired sometimes, y'know? But this one I got really jazzed about so I'm glad. This is day...13? I think? (My first story for this was The Life that Died with Shame if you want to take a look at 'em) So almost halfway there. Woo!  
> Ophelia at the piano I liked. I like Laertes getting really fucking angry at a brass instrument even more tho. Hehe.
> 
> Thanks for reading! :)


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